The autumn wind, whispering secrets through the ancient courtyard, seemed loath to depart, lingering near the crumbling stone walls. It carried with it the echoes of Wang Lin’s voice, a tale of a youth from the Vermillion Bird Star, a poignant melody woven with threads of hardship and shadowed by a profound sorrow, deepening with the season’s melancholic embrace.

Qing Yi’s eyes had long overflowed, silent tears tracing paths down her cheeks as she absorbed each word. Wang Ping, however, lowered his head halfway through the telling, his face obscured, leaving his emotions veiled in shadow.

“And so, he dwelt upon Raincloud Star with his child…” Wang Lin’s narrative concluded, the last notes fading into the stillness. He raised his gourd, taking a long draught of wine, and gazed skyward, his silence heavier than any words he could have uttered.

Qing Yi stared at the father and son before her, a strange and nameless emotion stirring within her breast. Instinctively, she reached out and clasped Wang Ping’s hand, only to recoil at its icy touch.

The courtyard remained steeped in an unnerving quiet for what felt like an age, before Wang Ping’s voice, raspy and low, finally broke the silence. “A beautiful tale, Father. I am weary.” He rose to his feet, and turned to the humble, side chamber nestled beside the main hall, his posture conveying a subtle weariness that resonated with the ancient stones of the courtyard. Qing Yi, bowing respectfully to Wang Lin, hurried after him.

The entire yard was left to Wang Lin’s solitary vigil. He sat motionless, lost in the distance, his gaze fixed on some unseen horizon.

The chilling autumn wind, sharpened by the descending night, grew in strength, swirling around him, scattering fallen leaves in a wild dance. He watched them carried away on the breeze, their destinations unknown. Lost in the echoes of the wind, how much time passed he could not know. Finally, Wang Lin sighed, a soft exhalation of breath. He lowered his head, and brought his gourd to his lips, only to discover it was empty. The tale weighed heavy on him.

That night, Wang Ping found no solace in slumber.

He sat within his chamber, the pale light of the moon painting silver streaks across his face. Anguish etched itself upon his features. Qing Yi sat beside him, her hand gently clasping his, offering a silent, comforting presence.

“So…this is the answer…the answer for which I have waited for sixty years…” Wang Ping’s voice trembled, his torment intensified, like a wounded animal.

“It would seem that I am but a nascent soul, molded and refined as a weapon…” Wang Ping’s head sank, and a wave of bitter regret and weary resignation washed over his face.

As the first rays of dawn broke the darkness, Wang Ping prepared to depart, Qing Yi steadfastly at his side.

Throughout their preparations, he spoke not a single word to his father, nor did he even meet his gaze. The departure was a quiet affair, carried out in the stillness of the morning. He sat silently upon the coach, the wheels turning as it carried him away from Qi Shui City.

Unseen by the departing pair, a pair of aged eyes watched the coach disappear into the distance, those eyes filled with a profound and ancient understanding, the weight of ages held within their depths.

Wang Lin had risen before dawn and moved to a courtyard to watch them depart, murmuring to himself, “Perhaps, one day, you will see clearly…”

Wang Ping sat within the swaying coach, directionless, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, yet seeing nothing. He felt an overwhelming fatigue, a sense that nothing in this world could ever stir his interest again.

“Qing Yi,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper, “I am weary. Let us find a peaceful village in the mountains, and dwell there…”

Qing Yi nodded, her eyes filled with a tender compassion.

In a secluded mountain village, far from the clamor of the world, Wang Ping and Qing Yi settled down to a quiet life. Their years were many, and the tapestry of his life often flickered before Wang Ping’s eyes.

Nineteen years of unassuming serenity, eight years of wandering the lands, twenty-five years of brutal conflict, a fleeting decade as a peerless power, all were now but a quiet echo in the deep places of his mind. Though brief, the splendor of it all was a tale few could claim as their own.

And yet, he had returned to the beginning, to the quiet ordinariness from which he had come. Each morning, he would rise early, and sit in the courtyard, carving figures from wooden blocks. In the simple, repetitive motion, there was a quiet warmth. Qing Yi would sit beside him, her gentle gaze fixed on the carving knife in his hands, as he shaped and reshaped the wood.

“My father once told me that carving must be done with the heart,” Wang Ping mused, blowing away the wood shavings that clung to the figure in his hand. “Only then can you capture every memory, every emotion, and infuse it into the wood.”

He set the carving down upon the ground, a wistful smile playing upon his lips. “This,” he said quietly, “is my father as a young man.”

The carving depicted Wang Lin, in his youth, his eyes shining with a fierce determination, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out across the heavens. An aura of indomitable pride emanated from the wooden figure.

A decade slipped by, almost unnoticed.

The relentless wheel of time eroded all, leaving its indelible mark upon everything it touched. Life and death played out their eternal dance, forever bound to the rhythms of the Heavenly Dao.

Ten years might be an eternity to some mortals, a blink of an eye to others. It was the paradox of mortal existence, the truth that resonated in the hearts of all who lived and breathed.

For Wang Lin, ten years was both fleeting and endless.

His hair had turned silver, long and unkempt, as though he had long forgotten the simple act of combing. His face was etched with the deep lines of age, his eyes veiled in a perpetual haze. When he closed his eyes, it was as though he stepped into the realms of eternal reincarnation.

In these ten quiet years, Wang Lin’s understanding of the Heavenly Dao grew in depth and clarity. It was not a conscious endeavor, but an accidental illumination that arose from the crucible of time, an organic evolution of the soul.

It was like the trees in his courtyard, most of which had withered and died, unable to escape the cycle of reincarnation. And yet, even as they decayed, new life sprang forth from their decaying roots, a testament to the enduring power of nature.

Within the cycles of life and death, the seeds of rebirth were sown in every place. In times past, Wang Lin might have seen these signs and felt nothing, but now, in his state of quiet reflection, he saw the vitality in all things.

The flowers in the corner of the courtyard, withered and died each year, only to bloom again with renewed vigor each spring.

The clouds in the sky dissipated each day, yet coalesced anew each dawn. It was the way of the world, where death and birth, sorrow and joy, existed in an eternal equilibrium.

Everything, it seemed, was linked by an invisible and unknowable thread.

Within the vast expanse of the Wang estate, Wang Lin dwelt alone. The surrounding neighbors had long grown accustomed to his solitude. Indeed, many of the village children often ventured into the courtyard to play. At first, they were fearful of the old man, but with the passing of time, they discovered that this old grandfather was not at all frightening.

Gradually, the great house became a playground for the local children. Wang Lin found solace and peace in watching them at play.

A son must live his own life, Wang Lin thought. He had done what he could, and said what needed to be said. Whether or not Wang Ping would come to see the truth was up to him now.

Wang Lin believed that the son he had raised possessed a heart as vast as the heavens, and that, with time, he would overcome the obstacles that stood in his path.
The weight of years pressed heavily upon Wang Ping, etching deep lines upon his face. The twilight of his life had arrived, yet his hands never ceased their dance with the carving tools.

“Father was right,” he murmured, his voice thin as autumn leaves. “A life of simple peace… If only I could choose, if there were a life beyond this, I would spend it by his side in a secluded village, living in quiet obscurity…”

Beside him, Qing Yi watched him with a steadfast gaze, her eyes filled with an ancient sorrow. “If your heart understands this truth, why do you not seek him out, even now?”

Wang Ping laid down the likeness he’d been crafting, a statue of his father, Wang Lin, as he was a decade past. The image captured the warmth of a simple scene: Wang Lin seated at the table, his voice a gentle invitation, “Come, eat.”

“Qing Yi, you do not understand…” Wang Ping’s wisdom had deepened with the passage of time, a knowing glint now prominent in his weary eyes.

“Beyond the grief of my mother’s passing, there remains a question that haunts me. A question I dare not ask… A feeling that this very question is the true reason my father forbade me the path of cultivation.” A shadow of unbearable sadness flickered within him, a sorrow eerily reminiscent of Wang Lin himself. He suspected the truth, a terrible suspicion that he lacked the courage to confirm.

“Qing Yi, I feel the cold embrace of death drawing near. My time grows short. You, being a cultivator, possess a lifespan far beyond my own. When I am gone, take my ashes and deliver them to my father.”

He turned his gaze upon her, a bittersweet smile gracing his lips. “As for you, you shall be free. But remember, no matter how many ages pass, no matter how many cycles of life and death you endure, remember this fleeting existence. Remember that there was a lifetime, a single turn of the wheel, that belonged to me.” The words were uttered with quiet acceptance, yet beneath them lay a resolute finality.

Qing Yi gasped, a sob caught in her throat, but Wang Ping raised a hand, silencing her.

“These years… I have burdened you. As a cultivator, you possess the power to reshape your very form. To ease my loneliness, you allowed yourself to age with me, sharing my decline. This devotion, Qing Yi, I shall never forget. And if there be a life beyond, I swear, I shall never forget you!”

Tears streamed down Qing Yi’s face, each one a testament to her unwavering commitment. Years ago, Wang Lin had elevated her cultivation to the pinnacle of the nascent soul realm, and then, twenty years past, in her companionship with Wang Ping, she had touched upon the dao itself, gaining true insight. Her insight was the unwavering devotion, a love that knew no regret.

“Even in the Yellow Springs, I shall walk beside you,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “Cultivation is but dust in my eyes… I care not for the cold detachment of immortals. I only wish to be a creature of feeling, of love…”

Wang Ping stared at her, stunned, and with a heavy sigh, he murmured, “Why would you do this?”

Far above, in the star-strewn expanse, a bolt of lightning cleaved through the darkness. It tore through nebulous clouds, revealing itself to be a colossal beast, a creature of immense power. It resembled a Qilin, but hornless, its hide crackling with raw celestial energy. It was a Thunder Beast, a being of pure lightning.

Upon its back sat a middle-aged scholar, untouched by the potent energy that coursed through the creature. His cultivation was profound, his control absolute.

With blinding speed, the Thunder Beast raced towards the Northern Domain of Luo Tian.

Its destination was clear: Ran Yun Star, nestled within that vast expanse.

Seventy years past, whispers had begun, emanating from the turbulent events that had occurred upon Qian Huan Star. The death of the Illusionist Clan’s patriarch, a cultivator who had stepped beyond the first stage of transcendence, and the alleged appearance of an Emissary of the Thunder Celestial Temple. These rumors, at first faint, had slowly risen, finally capturing the attention of the Temple itself.

Investigation suggested that the suspected imposter had not left Ran Yun Star. Thus, this envoy had been dispatched to uncover the truth.

This middle-aged man had surpassed the first steps of cultivation, reaching the realm of Yin Void. He rode the Thunder Beast across the threshold of Luo Tian, making straight for Ran Yun Star.

“To impersonate an Emissary of the Thunder Celestial Temple? Such audacity has been absent for far too long!” A chilling smile crept across the man’s face. As a true Emissary, his authority was vast. Throughout the entirety of the Luo Tian Star Domain, save for a handful of ancient cultivation clans, none dared to cross the Thunder Celestial Temple.

“Let Lei Daozi, the *true* Emissary, make this charlatan’s acquaintance. Do not mistake a few tricks of lightning magic for the power of the Temple! For those who are truly blessed by the Thunder Celestial Temple, possess the loyalty of a Thunder Beast!” Lei Daozi placed a hand upon the beast’s head, offering a gentle pat.

As if sensing its master’s pride, the Thunder Beast threw back its head and unleashed a deafening roar. The sound of pure thunder echoed through the void, carrying across the stars, drawing ever closer to Ran Yun Star…